


Olympia

by edy



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Alternate Universe - 19th Century, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Prostitution, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-08-31 00:34:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8555713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edy/pseuds/edy
Summary: "It's hard to forget someone when they visit you every other day for the past month."





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [marsakat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marsakat/gifts), [Pollarize](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pollarize/gifts), [pilotjosephdun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pilotjosephdun/gifts).



> inspiration: _olympia_ by édouard manet

The bouquet in his hands is made of sweet peas, orchids, lilacs, and yellow tulips. Freshly plucked, the flowers were delicately tied together with a white bow by unwavering fingertips. "Must be a lucky girl," the woman behind the counter commented, her husband at her elbow going through the checkbooks.

"Oh, she will be." He smiled at that, and took the bouquet after paying for them. "She is."

Not even out in the springtime air for more than an hour, the petals have begun to droop. He stands in front of the door, the wood chipped in places. They remind him of scratch marks.

He knocks on the door at the same time a delicious gasp erupts to his right. All the doors down the hall are shut tight, private and either occupied by a singular person or two, perhaps three or more. The thought raises a blush to his cheeks as he knocks again.

No ready response, his nerves get the better of him, and so he opens the door.

There she lies, reclining back with a black choker around her neck and only one slipper on her foot. A fan rests in one hand, which she uses to cool herself off, while the other hand is unabashedly on her cunt. She's by herself, save for a black cat on the bed with her. Bouquets of flowers, not unlike the one he has now, surrounds her. He can hear bees. "Oh," she says, and continues to fan herself. She's bored, naked, breasts small, waist and hips narrow. One ankle crosses another as she kicks off the slipper. "It's you."

"You remember me," he says, all smiles, as he leaves the door open to stride toward her.

"It's hard to forget someone when they visit you every other day for the past month."

"I'm here to—"

"Put them with the others," she says, gesturing to the vanity in the corner.

He doesn't. He doesn't move. She has an orchid of her own in her short dark hair. "I'm here to—"

"Is he bothering you, Ms. Dun?" A woman appears by the open door, head tilted to the side as she inspects the scene before her. "The door was—"

"He was just leaving." There's arrogance in her eyes, chin up to look at him down her nose. "Weren't you?"

"No, well, I-I—"

"I'll talk to him," she says, and waves her fan at the door. "Close it, will you? I'll have him escorted out when I'm finished."

The young girl scurries to shut the door. She's clothed in a thin dress, shapeless, something to wear during her off hours. Excitement and anticipation lines her face as she gives him a look. Lips pressed together, eyebrows raised, she, like every girl who works at the brothel, knows just how ruthless Ms. Dun can be with her clients. But along with that cold-heartedness, there's admiration, as well. Her eyes are hazel, her mouth pouty, and she seems to genuinely care when she's alone with her clients. She's expensive and the best, and often given flowers by her admirers—one of whom is Tyler Joseph.

Tyler stands before her, door closed and pulse quickening. He knows she is violent and proud, and he is sick to his stomach to find out what she means when she's "finished" with him.

"Hello," he mutters.

"Why do you keep coming back?" She's exasperated, tossing her fan at his head. He doesn't duck in time and gets hit in the forehead. It stings.

"Why couldn't you be like the others?" she goes on. "Just fucked me and left without another thought?" Without her fan, her fingers twitch, and she begins to pick at her cuticles. The hand on her groin remains. "The flowers are lovely, but flowers die. Paint me a picture if you're so intent on immortalizing your affection for me." She blinks. "Are you a painter?"

"Uh, no, but I am an artist in my own right."

She pauses at that, eyes going up and down Tyler's body. Her lips quirk. "I suppose you're allowed to forgo any sort of trade, yes? Your family's wealthy."

"They—"

"And yet, here you are, wasting their hard-earned money on a whore." The cat stirs at her feet as she changes which ankle drapes over the other. Her toes curl. The hair on her legs is dark. Tyler remembers kissing up her calf muscles.

"That's why I'm here. I am the eldest son, and my parents have every intention to wed me to the neighbor girl. Her father's a farmer."

She rolls her eyes and twists a lock of hair around her finger. It's short, though, and the action is more of a pulling than a twirling.

"But I am a follower of more modern thought," Tyler continues, the bouquet in his hands staining his palms green. "I have decided instead of settling for a life of misery and sexual incompetence, I will marry for love." And with that, he approaches her bed once more and holds out the flowers.

Wary defines her eyes, and they only deepen once she spots the delicate band of silver on the stem of a lilac. "Tyler," she breathes.

"I haven't been able to stop thinking of the night we shared at my brother's party. You were paid to entertain him, but you were drawn to me. There must be a reason for that."

She attempts at a more formal tone. "Mr. Joseph, that was merely because I assumed you were the man who had recently become of age."

"No," Tyler says, and that's it. Simple, Tyler worries he will scare her off, that she will "finish him" and have someone escort him out.

Her fingers curl, and she gets this sneer on her face. It's ugly. "Are you calling me a liar?"

"Yes."

Tyler wonders when he became so bold. She looks as if she might spit fire. She swings her legs over the side of the bed and grabs a pair of trousers, stepping into them like they are a second skin. "I am a whore, Mr. Joseph, and you should do well to remember that." Her fan is by his feet. She bends over to pluck it from the floor before digging in her vanity. A cigarette makes an appearance.

"You can still be a whore," Tyler says. "I don't care about that."

She lights her cigarette. Ashes fall onto her breasts, her too lazy or merely not bothered to pull on a collared shirt to pair with her trousers. "I suppose you wouldn't," she sighs. "I am the best."

"I know." Tyler drops to his knees and pushes the flowers into her personal space once more. "Please, Ms. Dun, make me the happiest man in the world. Become Mrs. Joseph."

Shoulders hunched, she grabs onto the wooden edge of her vanity. In a quick flick of her wrist, she sends three or four bouquets to the floor. Roses and daisies and chrysanthemums alike, they flutter and scatter, and Tyler is frightened more now than he had been upon entering the room to her defiant stare.

"Mr. Joseph," she says quietly, her cigarette between her fingers. Smoke rises and curls around her sharp edges.

"Yes?" Tyler is surprised he isn't trembling.

"No," she says. "I… Not Mrs. Joseph. I wouldn't be Mrs. Joseph."

He falters.

"Mr. Joseph," she repeats, and only then does Tyler realize what she was referring to before. "I will be Mr. Joseph in the privacy of our… home, if I am to marry you. Tyler," she says, and she looks at him, "I am a boy."

The words tumble.

"I don't care about that."

Along with bees, Tyler can hear crying. He stands, then, and approaches the vanity. In the mirror, he can see the cat stretch its back and yawn. "What's your name?" Tyler asks. "May I know that?"

"Josh."

Tyler gingerly places the bouquet of flowers on the vanity top. He watches Josh's reflection, watches Josh stick the cigarette between his lips and work the ring from the lilac. Tears stick to his cheeks, dark red from rouge and the sobs that still rake through his body. "You want to marry me even still?" he asks, and turns his eyes onto Tyler. "Knowing that you will be married to a man with a cunt?"

"I will marry you tomorrow," Tyler says. "I mean it."

Josh is crying. He looks away, dropping the cigarette into a glass of lukewarm water. "Tyler…"

"I am not a painter." Tyler takes Josh's hands. In his right hand, Josh holds the ring. Tyler smiles. "I'm no painter, but I can immortalize my love for you in song. People will sing of it for centuries."

"Tyler—"

"If you say no, then let me have tonight, and you can sell the ring as payment." Tyler presses a palm to Josh's cheek, lowering to cup the side of his neck. The choker isn't black; it's a deep blue.

"Put the ring on me, you nancy."

Tyler feels faint, scrambling to get the ring from Josh's hand. He's shaking, sliding it onto Josh's left hand. It's a perfect match. Soon, they're both crying. Tyler leans their foreheads together, hands on Josh's waist as Josh's arms wound around his neck. "Fuck me," Josh whispers in his ear, and Tyler doesn't hesitate for a moment.

Josh drops his trousers on the floor and lets Tyler undress while he shuts the windows and lights the candles by the bed. The cat raises its head, tail twitching. It meows, a soft chirping sound, and leaves the bed for the couple.

On the bed, the mattress is soft, and the blankets are made of plush. Josh and Tyler don't get underneath them. They lie on top, Josh's legs falling open to accommodate Tyler. Tyler hovers above him, kissing his breasts and the ribs that show through the pale skin. Absently, Josh is already touching himself, his fingers wet and buried inside, stroking, prodding. Tyler kisses Josh, bites Josh's lips, and he crawls down Josh's body to bite his hip.

Josh has two fingers inside himself. Tyler sucks on Josh's clit and feels Josh shake and quicken his hand. Tyler eases in two of his own fingers and matches his movements with Josh, never ceasing on the licks and kisses to Josh's clit.

"Stop, stop," Josh pleads, back arching from the bed. "Oh, darling, I want you—"

Tyler pushes onto all fours, and Josh rolls them, on top, straddling Tyler's waist. "I want you," Josh says, "right here."

When Tyler enters Josh, he immediately whines, eyes shut, lips parted. This sensation is still new. No matter how many times they slept together that first night, Tyler's breath leaves his body all the same, and his chest tightens, and he feels. He _feels_.

Josh bounces, and Tyler hangs on, touching, rubbing, hands like magnets to erogenous zones. The orchid in Josh's hair stays put even in the most rigorous motions. Jewels in Josh's ears catch the candlelight, and Tyler slips his fingers under the choker to pull Josh down, to kiss Josh, to let Josh taste himself on Tyler's tongue. Josh quivers, fingers quick on his clit. Tyler holds him close, running his hand to the back of Josh's neck, and he kisses Josh until they each are quivering and whimpering and cursing.

The moon high and peeking through the window, Tyler's fingertips stroke the inside of Josh's thighs, up to his swollen cunt. Pink and covered with thick hair, Tyler uses his thumbs to spread Josh open and gaze at the come steadily spilling out to land on Tyler's stomach. "You are a generous lover," Josh admits, chest heaving. "Will our marriage bed share these same trysts?"

"We'll find out tomorrow, won't we?" Tyler scoops his semen with two fingers and slowly sinks them into Josh's cunt. Josh clenches around him. "I love you," Tyler whispers, Josh tilting his head back and rotating his hips in circles. It's hard not to look away, not to witness Josh breathe and cry and fuck himself on Tyler's fingers. Round two, it's okay if Tyler is already spent. He'll be prepared for round three.

"I love you," Tyler says, wiggling a fourth finger inside Josh now, "my dear Olympia."


End file.
